right hand pointing



  Helen Losse

Dominance of Pink


Looks like the world's

imploding, some poor soulís

shot out of a chimney.


The rest of the people

are rushing toward center,

humming a tune in B-flat.


Why even the trees seek

the white-hot light.  Who will

recognize the world


when the wind stops blowing,

the brush in the hand

still painting its acrylic?







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